Oh dear, what a tangle of banners and cries, Of “My truth is truer!” and “Mine’s far more wise!” Of temples and doctrines and sacred decrees, All wrapped up in “holiness”. . . if you please. They march and they shout and they thump and they pound, With righteousness ringing (a very loud sound). But peek past the noise, past the flags that they wave…

How do you measure: are you losing or winning? Is life full of triumph or slightly head-spinning? Here’s a small exercise, simple yet wise: Take stock of your “big deals” – your lows and your highs. Your marriages, missteps, your loves and your losses, Your brilliant “I nailed it” or “Oh Well . . . that was crosses.” Your children, your choices…

Oh, many folks think (and they think it quite loud), “Once I’m ON MY PATH, I’ll feel certain and proud! A burst of bright brilliance! A creative parade! No doubts, no confusion, no plans left unmade!” But here’s the small secret (now lean in, don’t roam): You’ve always been walking your path all along…

When I’m scared of the dark I whistle or sing,
Which fixates and pixates each scary thing.
The scaries are lonely, but not when I’m there.
They know that my music means that I care…

Oh, the “V” word is clever. It whispers, “Their fault.” And saves pain and bruises to hold in your vault. It catalogs injuries, polishes blame, Hands you a banner emblazoned with shame. It points out the villains, rehashing their crimes, And tells the same story, time after time.

Now let’s carry on, dear reader, stay near,
For Part Two holds truths some avoid out of fear. Because after the money, the wires, the pleas, Come silence… then questions… then nights without ease. You wait for a message. Refresh. Then retry. You tell yourself stories. You reason out why…

The lonely heart is a hungry old hunter,
It wanders at night and it wonders and wonders. For years we were married, then suddenly—poof! A spouse disappears—by divorce… or by death. You planned a whole lifetime with someone beside you, then life…

If your mind were a compass, a curious thing,
Would it spin toward old stories with a sorrowful ring? Would it point toward the past with a dramatic insist, Crying, “Look what they did!” with a clenched fist?

What is this thing called happy, my friend?
Does it start with a wish—or come near the end?
Is it chickens in pots? Or cars shining bright?
A Mercedes at dusk with the headlights just right?

Step right up to the Game of Your Life—
Not the mild sort, not the lukewarm-lite.
No, this is theBIG one,the bold neon swirl,
Where you spin the dial and design your whole world.
Guess who’s in charge of it all? Surprise! It’s YOU!
You’re the boss, the head honcho, the whole kangaroo…